Saint Joan of Arc

Like the head of a coin,
I performed my worth—
riding the red flag
of my menses into battle.

That night in Orleans,
I undressed beside my horse.
A little gold bullseye
grew above my head,

glowing like the dying
end of a cigarette.
The dark so admired me,
even the moon couldn’t

find my nipples—
small and shrewd,
unpruned
roses among men

who stood no chance
of holding them.
It was the happiest
I’d ever been––

alive in the flames
of God’s undivided
attention.

Amy Thatcher is a native Philadelphian. Her poems have been published by Salt Hill, Denver Quarterly, Copper Nickel and others.Her first manuscript, Weird Girl, was awarded the 2025 Charles B. Wheeler Poetry Prize, and will be published by the Ohio State University Press in the spring of next year.